


what is this feeling? (love)

by gaytectives



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Empath, First Kiss, M/M, not betad bc im a bad bitch and i dont care, post-armageddon't
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-09-01 13:18:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20258734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaytectives/pseuds/gaytectives
Summary: prompt: after the body swap, Crowley starts to feel Aziraphale's love for him.





	what is this feeling? (love)

**Author's Note:**

> it's just gay lads

Things are different.

Rather, everything is exactly the same as it was before Armageddon’t and Crowley and Aziraphale’s metaphoric declarations of independence from Heaven and Hell, but the moment Crowley steps back into his own body from Aziraphale’s he feels like he’s walked into a room in which all the furniture has been shifted just far enough to the left that you run your shins into every corner of every table and chair.

So, the same, but wildly disorienting.

Maybe it’s one of the effects of the Earth being essentially rebooted by the young Antichrist-who-was. Maybe the Ritz isn’t all it’s cracked up to be and he got food poisoning from that ridiculously indulgent Ceviche of Scallop Aziraphale insisted he order. Maybe this is the culmination of all of Crowley’s worst fears and, in switching bodies with Aziraphale, something angelic has seeped into him (and the worst consequence of that possibility, the true cause of Crowley’s fears—something demonic has seeped into Aziraphale).

Whatever it is, Crowley has no name for it. He felt it for the first time when they swapped back; a warmth, fuzzy and soft and nearly unnoticeable at first. He’d figured, at first, that it was a weird combination of the usual insufferable butterflies that come along with touching Az and the sensation of his soul-thingy transferring physical vessels. 

The feeling stuck around for awhile, but once he got back to his flat and had a good shout at his plants the feeling disappeared, so he shrugged it off and drank himself to sleep, exhausted from the truly ridiculous series of events and _ finally _ free to crash for a few days.

He wakes up three days later and texts Aziraphale to meet up for lunch at the rustic little bakery on the end of Kendal Street because… well, because there's no reason not to anymore.

It's a terrifyingly freeing thought—the tiptoeing around, the risk of being caught and/or killed by some of the Powers That Be, it's over. 

It's also dangerous. Now Crowley has no reason to stay away. 

Az agrees, of course, because Crowley chose his favorite (local) bakery. They decide to meet at noon and Crowley takes an extraordinarily long shower and primps and preens himself like a lovesick peacock up until the last possible minute. 

That feeling starts creeping back in as Crowley slinks up to the bakery. It's low and deep in his core, a subtle vibration that grows in intensity as he walks inside. Aziraphale is in one of the comfy armchairs facing the windows, already sipping on cocoa. Crowley smiles and runs a hand through his hair, pseudo-heart already skipping a beat at the sight of the back of Aziraphale's head.

Before the door is even shut, Aziraphale jumps in his seat like he's been bit on the arse by a bug and whips his head around.

"Oh!" he gasps, hand flying to his chest like he's having trouble breathing. "_Crowley_, you're here."

"Angel," Crowley greets with a quirked brow. He goes to say something clever and banter-y but before he can get anything out he's overwhelmed by that _ feeling_, so intense that it steals his breath and fills his torso with a fluttering warmth that's suffocating_. _

He's dizzy with it—_ giddy _ with it, he realizes, unable to stop himself from smiling and letting out an extremely embarrassing giggle. He covers his mouth, cheeks pinkening, and leans against the wall for support. 

Crowley doesn't feel _ giddiness_. He feels pain, and need, and unrepentant pining for something he'll never have despite it being literally just across the room from him, practically within reach. In this moment, though, he's full to bursting with—well, with whatever the hell this _ is_, and it hits him in waves that grow with each crest. 

The object of his every desire, by coincidence, is staring at Crowley with his mouth agape, still grasping at his own lapels like if he lets go he'll fall to bits. 

"_Crowley,_" Aziraphale breathes, flushing brightly, "is that—my _ Lord_, is that all coming from _ you?"_

"I—I have _absolutely_ no idea what—ha!—_no_ _idea_ what's going on," Crowley gasps.

The clerk behind the bakery counter, who's been watching in extreme confusion since Crowley walked in like a swaggering idiot, finally speaks up. "Sir, are you okay?"

"He's fine," Aziraphale answers quickly, rising from his seat. "I'm his… I know him." 

He strides over to Crowley and goes to reach for him, then hesitates, like he's afraid to touch him. "Crowley, let's step outside."

The all-encompassing fluttering is distracting enough that Crowley doesn't even argue—he turns and fumbles for the door knob, but his hands are shaking and he can barely get ahold of it.

Aziraphale reaches for the knob and Crowley pulls his hand away, but not soon enough to avoid brushing his fingers against Az's palm. 

The feeling multiplies and Crowley's chest constricts; tears sting the corners of his eyes. He can hear Aziraphale gasp beside him as he shoves the door open.

Crowley stumbles through the doorway and leans against the wall outside, pressing a hand to the base of his throat where his pulse—which by all means he shouldn't even _ have _ —is fluttering faster than the beat of a hummingbird's wings. He can't stop smiling, and something deep inside him feels… _ whole. _

"_ Az_," he rasps, a laugh bubbling out, "oh my _ God._"

"Crowley," Aziraphale whispers, awed and a bit short of breath, "you—I—_ oh_, Lord above, I can't believe I never realized—"

"Angel, _ please,_" Crowley begs, "what the hell is going on?"

"Oh, _ Crowley_," Aziraphale says. Crowley can see tears in his eyes, too. "It's _ love_."

Crowley barks out a laugh. "_Love? _ I don't feel _ love_. I've never felt love."

Aziraphale takes a shaky breath and wipes at the corners of his eyes. "You know, during Armageddon I kept—well, I kept feeling those flashes, those flashes of love, and I never could place where they were coming from," he babbles. "Oh, dear boy. I had thought… well, I had hoped it had been you, but it was so infrequent and spotty I couldn't be sure."

"It _ wasssn't_," Crowley attempts to growl; it comes out as more of a pathetic hiss. 

"Crowley, darling," Aziraphale says, "I think that, perhaps, when we borrowed each other's bodies it might have changed something. To put it delicately, I think that you may be able to—to feel _ my _ love."

The fluttering in Crowley's chest speeds up and rises into his throat, a ball of nervous energy, and he shakes his head. "No—I know what celestial 'love' feels like, this isn't it," he huffs, scrubbing his hand over his mouth to force away his smile.

Aziraphale titters nervously. "Crowley, that's not what I mean."

Crowley swallows hard, rubbing at his throat. "I can't focus like this. God, do you have to deal with this all the time?"

"No, this is different," Aziraphale says wearily. "I admit it's… very distracting."

"What do you mean this is different?" Crowley asks, furrowing his brow.

Aziraphale hesitates, then reaches out and gently takes Crowley's glasses from his face. "I've been trying to explain," he says, folding the glasses and depositing them in Crowley's jacket pocket. 

Crowley blinks against the light and looks at Aziraphale, the fluttering lowering in volume to background noise for a moment in time. Aziraphale wants to see his eyes—this is important.

"The thing is, Crowley," Aziraphale says, his voice pitching higher with nerves, "I can feel _ your _ love—your romantic love, that is—for me right now."

Crowley's stomach bottoms out and his mouth goes dry. _ No. _"I don't know what you mean," he rasps, looking away.

"It's okay, dear," Aziraphale says sweetly. He takes Crowley's chin in his hand tenderly, sending waves of warmth buzzing down his neck. "I think what _ you're _ feeling is _ my _ romantic love."

Crowley stares at Aziraphale, slack-jawed.

"Gosh, I haven't rendered you speechless since the eighties," Aziraphale laughs, looking far too innocent for someone who just said something so groundshaking. His eyes are still watery and Crowley can feel his fingers trembling against his face. "I didn't think—I didn't even consider that you would ever be able to _ feel _ love in the same capacity that angels do because. Well, you know."

"Hard to forget, yeah," Crowley mumbles.

"Sorry, dear," Aziraphale says, smiling softly. "I really _ was _ going to tell you soon. I realized that after all of this—after surviving the end of the world and the threat of our employers with you, there was no real base left to any of my fears about… this."

"This?"

"Us," Aziraphale says. 

"Oh," Crowley exhales. "So—just to clarify, because I've been a bit off-kilter since I walked into the bakery—what you're saying is…"

Aziraphale smiles and brushes his thumb over Crowley's cheek, taking a step closer. "What I'm saying is, I love you."

If there were any room for doubt in Crowley's mind, it would have been washed away by the once again intensified waves of fluttering and warmth seeping into him through Aziraphale's hand. He reaches up and rests his hand over the angel's and takes a shuddering breath.

"I love you, too," Crowley whispers. He wraps his other arm around Aziraphale's back and pulls him in. "And _ please_, please tell me I can—"

Aziraphale beats him to the chase, tipping Crowley's chin up and kissing him sweetly. Crowley fails to hold back a pathetically needy whimper and kisses back, gripping the back of Aziraphale's jacket and holding him close with no intent of letting go.


End file.
